


Destruction by Ice, Revival by Fire

by skeleton_twins



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8748238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: Ever since his mother's death, Oswald isn’t capable of feeling warmth anymore. He tries, though, finding any source of heat and testing if maybe it will melt the ice under his skin. It doesn’t. He’s afraid this might be permanent, that is until Jim Gordon comes around.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to thekeyholder for betaing this fic and coming up with the title!
> 
>  
> 
> This story was hugely inspired by this amazing fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8623150

The feeling doesn’t start right away. It doesn’t happen overnight either. The rush Oswald gets from rightfully killing Galavan for the second time lingers for the next few days, masking any other emotion. He begins to notice it after several weeks have passed, and the high from watching Galavan blow up into smithereens starts to fade.

 

That’s the problem with seeking revenge. It’s ever so consuming. One becomes so focused on the task of retribution that everything else one might be feeling fades into the background.

 

During his hunt for vengeance, all the pain and grief he experienced after losing his mother, and the memories of Arkham swirling around in his head have been turned down like someone lowering the volume on a radio. It was still present - just muted.

 

He’s sitting at the table, having breakfast at the manor, when he realizes he’s in agony. Olga is actually the first one to bring it to his attention, asking him what’s wrong. Confused at her question, Oswald looks down and finds that for the last few minutes his hands have been squeezed into tight fists, knuckles white, fingernails digging into his palm, threatening to draw blood. He thinks that maybe the source of the pain is from his old injury, but there nothing more than the usual dull ache he’s grown accustomed to coming from his twisted leg. There’s no physical injury that’s causing the pain.

 

He also realizes that he hasn’t moved an inch since he first sat down to eat. The food on his plate is left untouched and growing cold. He has just been staring at the wall in front of him for the last several minutes.

 

When Olga repeats her question, Oswald simply smiles up at her and lies, “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong.”

 

. . . . . . . .

 

Each day the ache in his chest begins to grow heavier, making each inhale painful. It’s constricting and unforgiving. He thinks about his mother a lot these days and about the last moments with her. He remembers how cold it was, clutching her dead body. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt that kind of chill before. Ever since his mother died, there’s a layer of ice where his skin used to be. Oswald’s convinced the warmth from his body seeped out into the earth the same time his mother’s did, as she took her last breath.

 

He isn’t capable of feeling warmth anymore. He tries, though, finding any source of heat and testing if maybe it will melt the ice under his skin.

 

It doesn’t.

 

He’s afraid this might be permanent.

 

. . . . . . . .

 

He throws himself into work, looking for a distraction, chasing that sensation he had felt when he went after Galavan, but it flees and grows further and further in distance each time he tries.

 

Oswald finds that grief has a way of shining a spotlight on past priorities. Before losing his mother, his ambitions and making a name for himself in this city were the most important things. Now, not so much. Being the king of Gotham is no longer something to be proud of. The tile is only a reminder that his ambitions and pride are what got his mother killed.

 

He doesn’t care about being king anymore. He would rather have his mother back.

 

. . . . . . . .

 

Each day, Oswald feels like he’s just going through the motions, keeping appearances up for the sake of it. None of his employees seem to notice. It’s easy pretending. He’s good at it.

 

He is surprised though at who does seem to notice.

 

Jim Gordon pays him a visit. This is the first time Jim’s been to the manor, and honestly, Oswald’s unsure how Jim knew where to go to seek Oswald out in the first place. He doesn’t feel anything as he watches one of his men escort Jim to the dining room, or as Jim quietly takes in the new location, not saying anything. He remembers how he used to feel seeing Jim in his near vicinity. The rush of endorphins that would follow when the Detective locked eyes with him. Oswald misses it.

 

Oswald paints a smug smile, because after all, Oswald should be smug. He should be satisfied at having reached the top of the ladder, and once again Jim Gordon coming to him for another favor.

 

Instead, he feels absolutely nothing.

 

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

 

Jim ignores the question, eyes following around the room again. “Looks like you’re doing well for yourself.”  

 

Despite the statement, Oswald can hear the uncertainty in his voice, like he’s not fully believing Oswald’s act.

 

It’s amusing how out of everyone, Jim Gordon is the one to notice something’s off with him. Oswald wonders if maybe Jim has always been able to see right through him. Maybe that’s why Jim never believed him when Oswald tried to paint himself as more than just a criminal to Jim, as someone Jim could trust. From the start, Jim has been able to see the real monster, lurking beneath easy smiles and promises of friendship.

 

Maybe that’s why Jim left him behind in Arkham.

 

Oswald follows Jim’s curious gaze, seeing the portrait of his father hanging up over the fireplace mantle - another reminder of the family he’s lost.

 

He doesn’t hear the wine glass shattering. He doesn’t even feel the sharp glass cutting into his flesh or the blood trickling down his fingers. The Detective, on the other hand, is the first to react. He’s already on his feet, moving closer to Oswald, taking control of the situation.

 

Oswald glances down in a daze, the mask he’s created starts to slip, and he’s too tired to put it back in place. Instead, he watches numbly as Jim pulls a chair next to him, and takes his hand.

 

Carefully, Jim begins to remove the shards still clinging to Oswald’s fingers. Once he’s finished, Jim rips a piece of the tablecloth and wraps it around Oswald’s hand, making a tight knot. Old Oswald would’ve had an outrage at the fact that Jim’s using his _tablecloth_ as a makeshift bandage, but now it all seems rather frivolous.

“Are you alright?”

 

Jim’s question draws him away from his thoughts of tablecloths and back to the present. “I inherited all this,” Oswald informs him. “From my father.”

 

Jim blinks, not expecting Oswald’s response.

 

“He’s dead too.” Oswald adds, and as soon as the word too leaves his lips, a sudden pang hits his chest at how much he’s lost, at how alone he truly is.

 

“I’m sorry.” Jim sounds sincere. Oswald knows that Jim Gordon doesn’t say anything for the sake of it. He’s not a man of words - not like Oswald - so when Jim does say something, he genuinely means it.

 

When Oswald doesn’t say anything else, Jim takes his leave. Before he goes, he looks back, that frown that always seems to be fixed on Jim’s face is right in position.

 

“Take care of yourself, Oswald.” And with that, he’s gone.

 

Oswald realizes for the first time since his mother’s death he feels warm. The heat from Jim’s hand still lingers on Oswald’s skin long after he leaves.

 

. . . . . . . .

 

It comes as a surprise to many when he announces his retirement. The response to his announcement is loud. Everyone seemingly had an opinion regarding his action. The whispers from his employees, the chattering from the criminals waiting to take his place, even the GCPD had something to say about it. The reaction ranging from either a _“good riddance”_ or _“isn’t he too young to be retiring?”_.

 

Oswald doesn’t care about their opinions. He doesn’t care about much these days. He drowns out the murmurs of his staff, ignores the painstakingly obvious way they watch him out of the corner of their eyes. They don’t ask any questions, and he doesn’t offer any kind of explanation.

 

Lethargy drips off from him and apathy spreads through him like cancer, invading every cell, every part of his being. It leaves nothing but a feeling of emptiness in its wake. Oswald gave his best effort, trying to keep the charade that he’s still the same Oswald Cobblepot everyone knew. He’s too exhausted to play the part. The weight of pretending starts cracking the porcelain mask he’s worn. Each time he has to feign interest in business plans, each time he fakes a smile, each time he has to force himself to care when enemies strike against him forms another chip in the mask. There’s only so much pressure before it completely shatters.

 

When everything’s gone, the nightclub, all his other businesses on the side, all he’s left with is his father’s manor and Gabe.

 

After the announcement, Jim Gordon drops by for another visit. If he had known retiring would get the detective to visit him, he would’ve done it a long time ago.

 

“You’re retiring.” Jim’s blunt and to the point. Disbelief coloring his voice.

 

Gabe let him in, leading him to the living room. Oswald doesn’t miss the way Jim’s taken aback at his appearance. Oswald doesn’t put much effort in maintaining his old style anymore. He’s no longer Penguin, there’s no point.

 

“What are you going to do now?” Jim asks, hands on his hips, openly curious.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

. . . . . . . .

 

Retirement, he discovers, comes with a lot of time on his hands. Too much time alone is a dangerous thing, though.

 

The first few weeks had a sense of tranquility to them. He has been left alone, no business to attend to, nothing that needed his utmost attention. He could take a seat in his father’s favorite chair, and sit there all day and the next and the next. So that’s what he does for several days, and he feels almost giddy because he thinks this is it - what he’s been searching since his parents’ deaths - he just wants to quiet his mind from all the pain and grief.

 

It doesn’t last.

 

After a while, Oswald finds that the silence is too loud.

 

It’s ear-piercing and Oswald finds himself unable to remain at his manor for too long. The quiet plays tricks on his mind, making him hear noises that aren’t really there, like footsteps or his father’s laughter.

 

So he goes out. He has the time now, free to go anywhere he wants. He doesn’t leave Gotham, although he considers it before pushing the thought out of his mind - he can’t leave his parents behind.

 

He visits places his father talked about, places that he promised Oswald they would go to one day. Sometimes he spends the entire day with his mother at the cemetery.  He likes to go to places that remind him of his mother. Certain bakeries that had baked goods that his mother used to make for him as a child.

 

It’s bittersweet visiting their old apartment. He made sure to buy it after she died, not wanting anyone else living in what was her space. Its untouched, and left exactly the way it was before Galavan had his goons kidnap her. It’s where he has the most memories of her. In every inch of the apartment there’s a story of her, and it’s nice remembering her, but this is also where Oswald Cobblepot was born, where he let his ambitions run and transform into a twisted image of her son.

 

The first time it happens, it startles him.

 

It happens during one of these outings, when the idea of a permanent solution to his problem pops into his head. A way to not hurt anymore. It’s so simple.

 

He’s lying next to his mother’s plotted grave; it’s the only way he ever feels close to her again. The sun is beating down on him, but he ignores it, just like he ignores the concerned looks he received from the occasional passersby. He dreams about the earth opening up and swallowing him whole. Wishes that he could lie there until his body begins to decompose, and leave nothing behind but his skeleton. He wants to feel the fresh layer of dirt cover him, and flowers to grow out of his ribs.

 

It frightens him how much he craves to join his parents in the ground. How easy it could be; all he has to do right now is to take out his pocket-knife, aim precisely where he would nick an artery. He wonders how it would feel to bleed out into the earth’s soil, whether all the pain he’s feeling would follow, pour out of him until he’s completely empty.

 

At first, he tries to ignore it, and before he knows it, his hand slips inside his pocket. He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull out the knife, just lets his fingers rest heavy against the handle.  

 

The temptation is strong and unyielding. There’s a nagging voice in the back of his head, whispering, encouraging him to take the knife out. For a second, he agrees with the voice, that maybe he should just end his suffering here and now. His grip on the knife tightens.

He’s dragged out of such thoughts when a shadow falls over him, blocking out the sun. His hands drops back to his side, knife remaining in his pocket. Oswald tilts his head to the side, squinting up at the man. All Oswald can see past the glaring light is strands of blond hair glistening under the sun.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Oswald could recognize that voice anywhere.

 

“Enjoying the weather,” Oswald answers.

 

Jim finally shifts, and Oswald can see him clearly - he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful than Jim in this moment. His tie knot is loosened, a little bit of hair falling across his forehead as he looks down. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his tan skin. The sun falls behind him in the perfect position, casting a light around Jim’s head like he has some kind of halo.

 

Oswald thinks that Jim might be an angel.

 

Instead of walking away, like Oswald have suspected, Jim takes a seat next to Oswald’s outstretched body. Jim draws his knees to his chest, placing his arms on the top of his knees as he watches people pass. Oswald has trouble tearing his eyes away from the sight of him.

 

“I used to come here all the time, right after my father passed.” Jim doesn’t look at him. “I was thirteen when it happened.”

 

Oswald doesn’t say anything.

 

“It was a car accident...I was the only survivor.”

 

This is a piece of information that Oswald never knew about. He knew that Jim’s father died, but he wasn’t aware that Jim had been present during his death. For the first time in awhile, Oswald feels his curiosity begin to stir, and for a second he feels like his old self again.

 

He sits up, doesn’t bother dusting off the dirt on his pants, “I’m sorry.”

 

Jim shrugs.

 

Their relationship is built on favors and balance. Oswald feels inclined to share, to balance the scales between them. So he starts talking, telling Jim about his father, the first time they met, all about how much of a good man he was, nothing like Oswald.

 

After a while, Oswald’s throat starts to ache. His voice begins to drift, allowing silence to take shape and fall around them once more. This time he isn’t too bothered by the quiet. It’s comfortable and freeing, the ache in his ribs is almost unnoticeable as he takes a deep breath. Glancing up, he meets Jim’s steady gaze, and his heart lurches in his chest at how Jim’s looking at him without the usual repulsion or discomfort in sight. Jim’s stare works its way through him, filling all the empty spaces and he feels like his heart has started to beat again. He has to look away.

 

Oswald doesn’t know how long they continue to sit there, neither one moving or talking, somehow finding solace while being surrounded by the dead and reminders of what both of them have lost.

 

It’s then when it dawns on Oswald that he has completely forgotten about the voice urging him to kill himself.

 

. . . . . . . .

 

It gets worse - the urges - and Oswald is unable to run from this. It’s like an itch that he can’t scratch. Death preoccupies his mind, wrapping around him tight, and there’s no escape when it clings to his bones. It follows him everywhere. Impulses he’s never had before hissing into his ears, telling him all the ways he could end it.

 

Jim Gordon’s not always going to be there to distract him, to cast the dark thoughts away.

 

He knows it’s only a matter of time before he’ll give in, and it does happen while he’s walking the streets of Gotham. Today has been rough, the voices are louder than ever, and he’s suffocating under the weight of it all. He’s unable to scream - his vocal cords have been snipped by some invisible force.

 

Oswald is standing at a street corner, waiting to cross the street, squeezing the handle of his umbrella until his knuckles are white and the pressure threatens to fracture the bones in his fingers. It’s pointless to keep fighting it: he doesn’t have anything left, no one to mourn him if he walks into the oncoming traffic.

 

The decision is settled and the turbulent war in his mind finally quiets down. Oswald closes his eyes and steps forward, ready to see his family again.

 

A hand shoots out and grips the back of his coat, yanking him back. The force of it knocks the wind out of him. Oswald is seething, furious that someone has robbed him of his chance.

 

He sharply turns, breathing heavily, ready to spit venomous words at his supposed saviour. The words die on his lips, though, when he sees Jim Gordon standing there, looking angry himself.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing - trying to get yourself killed?!” Jim shouts.

 

Oswald looks away in shame, not able to meet Jim’s eyes. His silence is answer enough, revealing just how much truth there was in Jim’s question.  
  
There’s a blur of movement around them, and Oswald knows his opportunity is gone. The masses continue around the standing figures blocking the path, and then they’re gone, leaving the two of them alone. Time has slowed down, capturing them in place, and they’re both frozen, feet glued to the sidewalk.    
  
“Why would you try to kill yourself?” Jim finally asks, breaking the silence. Oswald is surprised at how upset he looks.

  
Oswald thinks that’s a rather stupid question.

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” He counters. “I have nothing left, _no one_ left.”

 

As soon as the admission leaves his lips, the burden of his loss returns full force and knocks the air out of his lungs. He’s completely alone and it hurts, it aches, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt pain this agonizing before.

 

Oswald doesn’t see it coming, doesn’t even have time to register it before arms wrap around him and pull him close. Immediately, Oswald is surrounded by warmth. The heat radiates off Jim’s body, and seeps through the layers and layers of frost under Oswald’s skin, melting the ice.

 

“You’re not alone, Oswald.”

 

And Oswald believes him.

 


End file.
